


Tend To Corrupt  (Part 1/2)

by Unsentimentalf



Series: Black Hole [2]
Category: Sherlock BBC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-06
Updated: 2010-09-06
Packaged: 2017-10-12 05:34:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unsentimentalf/pseuds/Unsentimentalf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade tries to extricate himself from the results of his working relationship with Sherlock</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tend To Corrupt  (Part 1/2)

Detective Inspector Lestrade turned in his chair to review the whiteboard. Manpower; always short, always juggled. This decision, at least, would make his life just that little bit easier. God knows he could do with that.

"Pull the surveillance off Holmes and Watson until further notice."

He saw Donovan freeze, off to one side. When she spoke he could hear her deliberate intention to sound calm.

"You think that's resolved?"

"I think I don't care. It's a bloody domestic, not CID."

Her fingers were up to her bruised cheek. Holmes had been high on coke when he'd hit her four days ago, a hell of a wallop. Lestrade had seen the x-rays, the tiny fracture across the bone. Nothing that wouldn't heal cleanly, but he'd also seen the prescription for painkillers. Holmes had hurt her.

Didn't mean that she needed to look at Lestrade like that. He'd told her that he'd deal with it. Did she really think him the sort of man who would let an assault on his staff go unanswered? He hadn't had Holmes arrested, admittedly, but there were circumstances. She must know that he would have done, if he could. If it had been anyone else.

He'd had a go at dealing with it already. He really had. Lestrade winced at memories of shouting furiously, helplessly, at a man way too close to completely fallen apart to care. He'd have another go.

"I'm not done with him," he muttered for her. A promise so vague that he wasn't sure he'd even know if he'd kept it. She wasn't happy; even a detective of the non-consulting type could see that. He hadn't spoken to her last night, except to tell her to return the dog and get off home. He'd been sick of the whole mess, still was. But here in the station with a dozen people within earshot was not the time to tell her that she'd been wrong, as well as stupidly, unprofessionally provocative. That empathy with John Watson over this was seriously misplaced.

So he slid smoothly into the morning's group briefing; actual work. Real work. Something new last night; a gang related stabbing; witnesses would likely not come forward readily, which meant work with the community policing units. Updates on the largest of the older cases. Reminders about draft personal assessments, about report deadlines, about the compulsory professionalism seminar next week.

"Yes, I know. You're all too busy. But compulsory means just that, guys. Powers that be say so."

The curse of modern policing, these things. Certainly the curse of modern police management. Last one he'd had to personally track Anderson down to the lab, twist his arm, bring him up to drink coffee and write notes on amendments to PACE procedures with the rest of them.

The rest of the morning went, for once, relatively smoothly. Which meant people in and out of his office every ten minutes and his trying to clear some of the bits of paper in his inbox in between.

Couple more bits before lunch. Lestrade picked up the draft agenda for the event next week. Halfway down his PA had pencilled in a question mark next to "WMSCS".

"West Midlands Serious Crime Squad" he scribbled back, dropped the paper in his out tray. Corruption wasn't just about getting paid off, it was sometimes about wanting results just a little too badly, and getting them, until the whole thing collapsed in a mess of miscarriage of justice and compensation claims. Lestrade doubted that any of his people would need reminding about what happens when police decide that getting the guilty convicted was more important than following the rules.

Next item down; sign off for removal of intermittent surveillance of 22A Baker Street. Donovan had processed that fast. Under reason she had ticked the "No crime" box.

A quick scrawl of signature, and the form slid onto the agenda, covering it up. Lestrade didn't reach out for another paper. Instead he sat for a few minutes, watching the bustle of his people through the glass door. Finally, he picked up his phone.

"Sally? Any chance you can get back here?"

A pause. He could hear her voice, talking to someone. Then "Yes. How urgent?"

"After lunch is fine. Come in and see me when you get in."

* * *

"Sir?"

How long since she'd been this formal? Not since she had first arrived, couple of years back.

Lestrade gestured his sergeant to a seat. "Please?"

She sat.

"I'm going to have Holmes arrested."

She thought about that one. She was a damn good officer, and he'd brushed her off for Holmes far too often.

"What charge?"

"Assaulting a police officer in the course of her duties. To start off with. We might pick up a few other charges before it gets to court."

Donovan glanced out at the main office, back to him.

"Are you going to change the reports?"

The question, its sheer matter of factness, hit Lestrade in the gut and for a moment he couldn't answer. Filed police reports could not, in theory, be tampered with. Theory might not match the ingenuity of some officers, but theory was backed up with some pretty hard legislation. That Sally might even think he was contemplating that - this had gone much too far.

"I'll file a supplemental."

"That could get you into a lot of trouble." She wasn't saying yes or not, not yet. There would be questions, sure enough. More of his relationship with his consulting detective would come out than he really wanted. A disciplinary hearing, most likely. But Sally was sitting there with a fractured cheekbone and questions about his integrity which had to be answered somehow. He shrugged. "I'll handle it."

"No." Her voice was definite. "Any barrister- or Holmes- would rip it to shreds in court. You know that. No chance of a conviction on contradictory police statements."

She smiled at him then, not bleak, not warm. "Sorry, sir. We're both going to have to live with this one. Is that all?"

"Yes." It wasn't the end of this, but he couldn't see his next move yet.

Donovan paused with her hand on the door handle. "What did he do to John Watson? What made you change your mind?"

Lestrade sighed. "Sherlock did nothing at all, except be very slightly human, for once. Watson screwed up the rest for both of them all by himself. It wasn't for him, Sally. It wasn't even for you, though God knows you deserve it."

He left the rest unsaid. She wasn't stupid. She knew just how deep the hole he'd dug himself into was.

No, she didn't. She knew what she'd seen. She knew he used Sherlock Holmes to solve his cases, get his convictions, and that he turned a blind eye to the man's frequent illegalities in return. She knew which side he'd chosen, four days ago. But she didn't know why, and nor, entirely, did he.

* * * *

A cold wind was blowing down Baker Street as Lestrade waited at the door. Chances were that no-one would answer. He should have gone home, not here.

He knocked again, louder. Took a step back to look up at the window that was Holmes' sitting room. He was still looking upwards when the front door opened.

John Watson. Shaved again, dressed in a clean shirt, but still looking somehow as if the street at his feet might be where he belonged. And not looking pleased to see him.

"Inspector."

"John. I wasn't," he said, truthfully, "expecting to see you here."

"I live here." Flat.

There was a pause, before John grimaced slightly. "I didn't thank you for the meal last night. Thank you."

Lestrade had seldom heard anything so begrudging. If he'd got through to the man, and John's presence here seemed to suggest that he had, Watson wasn't grateful.

The dog snuffled around its master's feet, and John bent down to restrain it from running out onto the pavement. "What can I do for you, Inspector?"

"I need to see Sherlock."

"No." John half closed the door. "He's not available."

"He'd better make himself available. I need to talk to him."

"No." Adamant. "He's not well enough to see anyone."

Lestrade was oddly disappointed. "You mean he's still off his head on coke? I've seen it before. I still need to speak to him."

"It's not going to happen. Go away." Watson's hostility was stronger now, and he was deliberately showing it.

"If I go away, I'm going to come back with a warrant, John. I can make life for both of you very difficult. " Off John's sceptical expression, "We've been through the place already in your absence. Back of the second drawer down, under the socks. And I know that neither of you have a licence."

How on earth had things come to this? Four days ago he'd walked away from the discovery of an unlicensed firearm with no thought other than to use it as leverage to keep his pet detective under control. Corruption- the echo in his mind. This had to stop.

It was quite possible that John Watson hated him. Still, he pulled the door open. "You can see him, but that's all."

Lestrade followed him up the familiar stairs. Entered the living room, stopped for a moment, bewildered. That wasn't Sherlock. Then he saw past the stickily plastered hair over a white brow, the unaccustomed slackness in the man's features. Sherlock, of course, sleeping or unconscious under a white sheet on the couch

"Is he sedated?" At the sound of his voice the man moved a little, made a small distressed noise, didn't wake. John tugged the sheet back up over Sherlock's bare chest, turned back to Lestrade.

"Yes."

"Where did you get it?"

John shook his head. "From a doctor. A real bona fide NHS doctor, Inspector. She came out last night, prescribed temazepam. Do you need to knock down her door too?"

Lestrade ignored Watson's hostility. Sherlock looked bad. Vulnerable.

"You can't keep him like that for long."

"I know that!" The rise in John's voice made Sherlock whimper. Quieter. "I am a doctor, you know, Tomorrow he'll be all too painfully conscious. No doubt you'll want to come round to watch."

"I didn't cause this! Take your damn guilt trip out on someone else."

Sherlock shifted on the narrow couch again, the sheet falling to the floor. The dog had settled by the fire, watching them.

"Why isn't he in bed?"

"You can leave now." John had moved to stand between him and the unconscious man. Lestrade could see the long line of Sherlock's thigh and calf twitching behind his flatmate. Not naked; there had been a glimpse of loose dark shorts.

Troubled sleep; Sherlock looked oddly innocent, human, that harsh intelligence hidden, the drug fuelled, desperate temper that had bruised Sally gone. Lestrade had no sympathy for drug abusers, still less violent ones. And Sherlock was remarkably easy to dislike. It shouldn't be uncomfortable to see him like this, bare and unshielded.

Self-inflicted, Lestrade reminded himself. No-one had forced the man to take cocaine.

"If he's got more in here, he'll take it when things get bad," he warned.

"He won't." For a moment John looked more soldier than doctor.

"You can't make him go clean. It's Holmes. He'll run circles round you."

"He doesn't want the stuff. He won't take it."

"Of course he wants it! He's been taking it for weeks. He's addicted. If you think you can give him something he wants more, you're seriously overestimating your sex appeal, John."

Watson's body jerked; a movement forward, badly controlled.

"Get out!" Unexpectedly hot anger, from the normally steady voice. "You had better bring your fucking warrant next time, Inspector, because you're not getting in here again without one."

The noise stirred Sherlock to near wakefulness. "John..." his voice slurred. A hand flared under the sheet, emerged, fingers grasping. "John?" Fingertips brushed across Watson's leg and John stepped forward abruptly, away from the couch. "Get out!" he snarled again at Lestrade. The dog was on its feet, growling.

Lestrade was staring at the figure on the sofa.

"I can probably find him a clinic bed if I call round a few places."

John snorted disbelief. "You want to put him in rehab? Sherlock Holmes? What the hell are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking he might do better with someone who can stand to touch him. He's on the couch because you just don't like the idea of his bedroom, isn't he?" He hadn't come for this argument, but something about that desperate, rejected hand had roused him.

John's face was unreadable.

"How's Sergeant Donovan, Inspector?"

And off Lestrade's hesitation,

"The difference between you and me is that I don't give Sherlock everything he wants, let him do everything he wants. That makes me his friend and you...what does that make you?"

He shook his head at the silence. "Go away. Your consulting detective will be available to do your job for you again soon enough. I'm sure he'll be in touch. Until then, just leave us alone."

Too late to protest that Donovan and restraining Holmes was all the reason why he had come. Sherlock had sunk back into his restless sleep. Lestrade turned for one last word.

"I still need to talk to him. It will wait for tonight but no longer. I'll be back tomorrow. Don't get in the way of this, John."

"Goodnight, Inspector." The set of that jaw promised further trouble to come.

* * *

 

There was a lead on the stabbing case. Lestrade sat through a hastily convened press conference, shepherded the sobbing mother through the performance they needed. As the room emptied, the Evening Standard reporter came over to speak to them.

"I see the Sergeant's been in the wars herself. Anything I should know about?"

The bruises hadn't yet faded, still a dark purple oval against brown skin. Lestrade saw the expression of disgust on her face.

"Pathetic addict loser. No story there."

Last night's sleep that Lestrade hadn't had seemed abruptly to have caught up with him. He leaned back onto one of the stiff conference chairs, head fuzzied. He still had to deal with Sherlock Holmes.

When the reporter was gone Lestrade spoke to Donovan,

"Have you time to come out with me this afternoon?"

"Where are we going?"

"Baker Street."

She sighed, as if that were what she had expected. "Don't get yourself into trouble, Sir."

"More trouble, you mean."

She nodded. "Is he clean?"

"According to Watson."

"He's back? The man's an idiot. Why doesn't he find a girlfriend, for pity's sake? Or even a real boyfriend?"

Lestrade felt that he was hardly in a position to answer that one.

* * *

This time John opened the door, gave them one considered look then turned and walked upstairs. The invitation was as obvious as the reluctance.

Lestrade's first glance was to the couch. Empty, except for cushions. Sherlock was standing by the armchair, dressed, looking as alert, as controlled, as usual.

"Do you have something for me?" Expectation in his voice. Lestrade wondered it the drugs had been some sort of act. Sherlock did not look like a man suffering cravings of anything except possibly boredom.

"No."

Sherlock's eyes flicked from him to Donovan.

"The full deleterious effect of the drug on impulse control was unexpected. It should have been both predictable and adequately suppressed."

Which was something close to an apology, Lestrade imagined, if you were Sherlock Holmes.

"Not interested." Sally's voice was flat. Lestrade felt a spark of pride. As long as there was one person who didn't buy Sherlock, there was a chance that Lestrade could escape. He suspected that he'd have accepted the apology.

"I see. Since you are here neither to arrest nor employ me, and this isn't a social call, perhaps you'd like to tell me why you came?"

Lestrade glanced round. John was by the entrance to the kitchen, glowering. The dog was curled up in a cardboard box, asleep. The couch was free- he sat down.

"From now on, we're going to play by the rules," he announced.

"Which means?" He had all Sherlock's attention and he always found that rather unnerving.

"I want the gun, for a start. Now."

"I'll get a licence." John, irritated.

"No, you won't." Lestrade could cope with John. He relaxed into familiar police persona. "There's no way you're getting past the police checks, John. You killed a man with an illegally held weapon."

"Allegedly." Sherlock drawled.

"We all know what happened. I want the gun, now."

Sally sat down at his side. He wondered how she thought he was doing so far.

"That shot, allegedly, could have saved my life." Impatience from Sherlock.

"Next time, call the police."

"Hardly practicable."

"You two are not running round my patch firing illegal weapons at suspected criminals. End of story. Gun."

John and Sherlock exchanged glances. John stalked off upstairs, back straight. In less than a minute he was down again, with the revolver. He emptied it, carefully, professionally, handed it to Sally who bagged it.

"Thank you."

"What else?" Sherlock sounded more interested than anything else. Lestrade wondered what cocaine withdrawal felt like. whether it was anything like nicotine. Maybe the man had just managed to skip the worst.

"The drug use stops. If you want to work with my team, you stay clean."

Sherlock waved a casual hand. "Stopped already. The blushes of your innocents are spared. What else?"

"No more illegal operations. You need compulsory access to somewhere, you come to me, you explain why, I send someone with you with a warrant. You interview someone, you follow PACE rules and you have an officer present. And you don't hide evidence."

"I am not," Sherlock said, irritably, "one of your grunts. I am a consultant, and I work my way or not at all."

"Work your way as much as you like, but don't break the law in the process, Sherlock. I'm not having it."

Sherlock's focus was still very much on him. Which was good- it meant the man was actually paying attention for once. But it did rather feel like playing schoolboy chess against a grand master.

"Fine. I shall be a model citizen."

And now he was just taking the piss.

"Oh for... You could at least pretend a little better than that, Sherlock."

"I really can't be bothered. Dull, Lestrade. You are quite capable of being a little more entertaining than this. Find me something interesting to do or go away."

Lestrade has been dealing with the arrogant ones, the ones who didn't believe the laws applied to them, since his first day on the beat, many years ago. There was a technique. Don't lose your temper, don't get into an argument. Just lay out the consequences, and if they don't back down, apply them.

Sherlock Holmes was not a teenage punk, but he sometimes had a lot in common with an adolescent pushing his luck. Like now. Lestrade kept his temper, with an effort. Cast around for some consequences to apply, found those rather harder to define than "public drunkenness" or "resisting arrest".

For a moment he was tempted to charge John Watson with the weapons offence. No, not tempted. Tempted was not the word for something that he damn well ought to be doing. His job.

Unfortunately charging his newly recovered flatmate with an offence carrying up to 5 years in prison would not teach Sherlock Holmes consequences. It would be an outright declaration of war, and Lestrade didn't actually want to go to war against Sherlock Holmes, because he, and all his people, and quite possibly the entire Met, would get their arses handed to them in no time flat. Which was where handling Holmes differed most from handling a pushy kid.

And Sherlock knew what he was thinking. Of course. Sherlock had that "can't touch me" smile that made Lestrade want to behave in a thoroughly unprofessional manner. Sally was tense beside him, and he suspected that she felt exactly the same way. They were the police; they had a hundred different acts of parliament, a thousand years of common law to support them and he could think of no way at all to make Sherlock toe the line.

If only the man had a car. There would at least be parking fines. He wondered briefly whether Holmes completed a tax return. Might be worth talking to the Revenue.

"Clutching at straws," Sherlock commented. "The drugs were your best chance, but you missed that opportunity."

That had Sally out of the seat before Lestrade could move. "If you think you're untouchable, you're so wrong."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Lestrade. "Am I, Inspector?"

That was a goad too far. No-one was untouchable. His unit wasn't that corrupt, despite five years of Sherlock Holmes. And he hadn't brought Donovan here just to see him fold.

"From now on," he stood up, ready to leave, "Sergeant Donovan will be in charge of checking that your operations are conducted legally. She will expect your full co-operation. I will continue to commission your assistance where appropriate, subject to her reports, including any reports she makes to the CPS."

Sally had come to stand next to him, united front. He'd sprung this one on her but she'd do it when he couldn't, because he had to work with Sherlock and she didn't.

He couldn't leave it there. Knew his life would be easier if he did, knew his conscience wouldn't be. He turned to John, quiet in the corner. "I have to ask you to come to the station with me, where you will be fingerprinted and your details taken, at which point I would expect that you will be offered a formal police caution in respect of possession of the gun. If you choose to accept it, it will form part of your criminal record and may be considered in court in respect of any future offences." He reeled off the rest of the formal warnings, mind racing.

He should not be offering a caution in respect of a firearms offence. The Home Office guidelines said "rare occasions" and meant it. If the other two men in this room in this room had any sense, they'd recognise this as the compromise that it was. As a line drawn in the sand, but still leaving them room. He didn't like what he'd seen of Holmes without Watson; he didn't want to be responsible for that, if he could help it. Just to hope now that everyone saw reason.

It was only at this point that he remembered that Sherlock Holmes was several days into cocaine withdrawal.

Part 2 to follow.


End file.
